Reconciliations
by Syropae
Summary: Just a collection of one-shots/drabble centered around BV...In no particular order. Many of these are commentaries/centered around how other characters understand their relationships...
1. Waiting in Shadows

_**Author's Note:**_ _I was watching Son Goku and friends the other day (with Tarble) and I noticed how Yamcha is the one who protects Bulma (and Oolong) from being crushed under the tower of the resort, while Vegeta was off chasing Aka, the safety of his wife forgotten (once again, as we think back to Androids). Just a little drabble. _

**Waiting in Shadows**

"He didn't save you again." She studies him for a moment, he can see she is being careful in choosing her next words. But instead, she says nothing and turns her face back to the panorama of the city, the sun slowly being swallowed by the hungry horizon. An amber glow reflects off of the soft features of her appearance, illuminating the porcelain fragility of her skin as she focuses on the world below her.

" Bulma." He says her name with such concern that she is forced to turn her attention back to him. "Doesn't it bother you?" He is exasperated, memories of the androids coming back to haunt him. Hearing of the stories that she almost died, that her son had to save her where her lover had failed. Forgotten emotions of rage and anger pricking at his skin, reminding him that had he been stronger, he could have saved her. She shrugs her shoulders and looks down at the forgotten drink that rests in her hands. Warm now by the touch of her body and the heat of the afternoon sun. No longer holding its delightful fizz.

"I cannot expect him to come rescue me every time I get myself into trouble." She is pensive now, swirling the straw in her drink.

"Bulma, if it wasn't for me, you and Oolong…"He trails off, flashes of the tower ready to crumble down and crush their frail bodies, Bulma hovering over Oolong and Puar to protect them, knowing full well that nothing she did could prevent the inevitable fall of the spiral building. Something that was never her fault.

"I know. Thank you Yamcha." The way she says his name sparks the lone butterfly that still flutters when she is around. The one that he cannot bear to extinguish. The one he holds onto, knowing that nothing will come of it.

"I would have been there, I could have protected you…If we had…." He trails off, knowing that the time for this conversation has long since passed. Knowing that his loss is permanent, marked by the birth of child she loves dearly, tainted by the presence of man only she seems to understand.

As they sit in silence, his unanswered question hangs in the air between them. She reaches over and squeezes his hand gently before letting go, as if to reassure him. The remnants of her caress imprinted in the palm of his hand. Reminding him that he will forever be waiting in the shadows for her. Picking up the pieces when the one she loves fails her.


	2. Understanding

**Author's Note:** _I think both Krillian and Bulma experience similar dynamics within their relationships to individuals who once tried to destroy their world. I would like to think that Krillan would perhaps have the best insight into how Bulma feels, considering he is in a similar position….Drabble. _

**Understanding**

"I get it now." The white sand is hot under their skin, the sound of crashing waves lulling them into a sense of serenity. They sit together; the cerulean genius and the diminutive sidekick, watching his golden-haired child and wife play in the shallow surf. She does not turn her attention to him, but acknowledges his statement with a soft hmm, tracing patterns with her fingers, observing the movement of the grains against her fingers.

"I didn't really get it before. Before I met her. I thought you were insane. I thought you were crazy to end up with him. I thought you had turned your back on all of us." The sun sits high in the sky, beads of sweat rolling down from his round forehead to his face, light reflecting off of the glossy surface. "Before I met her, I didn't know if I was going to be able to forgive you." His tone is serious, filled with a hint of resentment, of regret. She keeps silent. She knows that he needs to say this. She already understands what he is trying to say, can stop him. But she doesn't. She sits back and listens.

"And then I met her. And all of a sudden, I understood. I knew what it felt like, that uncertainty, that fear. That longing…." He goes quiet, his eyes fixated on his daughter as she tumbles about in the sand. They sit like this for a while, just listening to the sounds of the surf and the high-pitched delights of newfound exploration his daughter makes.

"She looks like you, you know, but with blond hair, and blue eyes. She has her mother's colouring, but her eyes are just like yours." Her voice breaks the stillness. He smiles.

"Bulma…do you ever worry that he'll leave you and not come back? That he'll turn into what he once was?" There is desperation in his voice, uncertainty. They face the same dilemmas, Bulma and Krillan. Married to those who were once considered monsters, apathetic beings bent on destruction and chaos. She considers his question carefully. They are alike in some ways, Bulma and Krillan, their ability to see beyond the leviathans that are presented in front of them. Their current relationships giving them a unique understanding.

"I do not worry about the future or dwell on the past anymore. I have learned to appreciate what I am given in the present." Her answer hangs between them, telling him that she does not have the solution he is looking for. That she cannot give him the reassurance of his choice any more than she can for herself.

"Who would have thought they would become our partners." He muses, closing his eyes against the penetrating glare of the sun, leaning back to take refuge in the little shade that Kame house provides. She reflects on his statement, watching 18 closely. All she sees now is the good, the beautiful of her mothering and happiness. But she knows there is a darkness hidden within the recess of 18's mind, a lust for bloodshed and slaughter. She hopes for Krillan and Marron that it does not come to fruition.


	3. Extraordinary

**Author's Note:** _I'd like to thank everyone who have started following/favouriting/reviewing this story. I think I should clarify about Chapter 1, it was more of a look at how Yamcha might still feel, not necessarily a bashing on BV (because I absolutely love the pairing of BV). The incident does occur, however, two years after the Buu saga (when the movie is set), but I do not doubt Vegeta's feelings for Bulma in the slightest, especially with the Battle of the Gods film. __ That chapter is just more a look on how others might interpret the events._

**Extraordinary**

Dimmed spheres of light illuminate the grounds, umbrellas slowly taken down from their perch on the stained linen. Dishes piled and taken away swiftly, the noise of scurrying feet and clinking china filling their air. The air is fresh, a cool breeze sweeping through the atmosphere as night falls. She surveys the hired staff clean up the grounds of Capsule Corp, a forgotten wine glass held in her left hand, her right arm held against her chest. She ponders the events of the day, wondering how she will make it up to him, how she will repay him for his devotion. Her hand reaches up to cup her cheek, her face still stinging from the harsh slap she endured earlier. She knows it will bruise later, and that he will be angry at what happened. Not with her, but for her.

"You are an extraordinary woman." She jumps, the wine glass slipping from her fingers and crashing onto the soft ground beneath her, red liquid pooling at her feet. So engrossed within her mind, she has failed to notice the quiet presence of the Namekin behind her.

"Piccolo-san, you've startled me." She bends down to pick the glass up, a sliver of a crack appearing across the rim. Only then when she observes the damage, does she comprehend what he has said. She turns to face him. "What did you say?" He has retained his usual stance, emanating an air of aloofness, reserved. His face casted down, arms cross, squared shoulders.

"You. You are….an extraordinary woman, Bulma Briefs." His voice is filled with wonder, and she is unsure how to respond, their relationship often lacking in much dialogue, much of anything. He turns away from her then, his gaze set across the grounds towards the training facilities. "I never thought I would see the day…" he muses softly.

She realizes he is talking about Vegeta, about his outburst, his possessiveness, his declaration of his feelings. "You are indeed, someone of worth. How I have failed to understand it before…" He turns his head back towards her, his gaze intent on her form. "I do not understand how you have managed it. But whatever it is that you have done for him…" There is something in his tone of voice that she cannot ascertain. Something akin to longing, but not directed at her, this she knows.

"Thank you for the invitation to the party, it was….eventful." He gives her a curt nod and flies off, leaving her in a swirl of dust and leaves. She is left to contemplate the meaning behind his words, the significance of their conversation. He had never been one to converse much with her; a distant relationship between them only held by the thin thread that Goku's being weaves. As she watches his form disappear into the dark night, she wonders if the solitude that is his life is not intentional, but circumstance.


	4. Reflections

**Author's Note:**_ I've always loved Android 16. I think that some interesting conversations could have been had between Bulma and 16 as she laboured over his body. Shoutout to NPN, your Battle of the Gods remark was indeed inspiration for the last chapter __ Rated m for discussions of sexual assault._

**Reflections**

The white glare of the screen burns her vision as she types away, equations and codes littering the screen, her eyes scanning them at a brisk pace. There is a dull throbbing behind her right eye, pulsating, encouraging her to take a break from the intensity of the monitor.

She pulls away, adjusting to the dim light of the room, her latest project lying quietly on the cold metal slab. She spins around in her chair to walk behind the powerful android, the vermillion tone of his hair and vivid green attire brightening up the gloomy hues of her lab. His skull is fractured, frayed wires spilling out into the open air, lights flashing to indicate issues that require attention. She has been exhausting herself trying to fix him, to prepare him for Cell. Spending long hours deciphering difficult blueprints, decoding the ambiguous language that has created.

"I need to do some work on the circuitry in your back." He nods his head, sitting up to allow her access. As she begins to pry open the panel, the wails of her son begin to fill the enclosed space. "Damn it…I'm coming honey." She drops the screwdriver onto the table to scope up her howling son from his crib in her arms, cooing to him softly in attempts to calm him down. "Shh…It's okay….Mommy needs to do some work….shh…" She rocks him gently, his cries dying down, rubbing her cheek against the softness of his skin. When she tries to place him back in his crib, he begins to yelp once more, and she realises that her ability to get work done without someone to watch Trunks is becoming increasingly an unfulfilled expectation. She holds him in her arms, singing softly, fighting back words of frustration.

"I can hold him for you." His voice pierces the room, startling her from her attentions. She turns back towards him, considering his offer. She is hesitant to accept, wary of his power and penchant for death. A memory flashes in her mind, his gentleness with her father's beloved pet. She thinks back to the data her and her father were able to collect from 16, the images of him with the small birds. His disappointment when they were scared away.

"Thank you…." She reluctantly hands Trunks to him, desperately trying to suppress her emotions of fear and uncertainty. He carries her beloved son delicately, staring down at his strong features, the hint of a smile gracing his lips. She returns to her work on his back, concentrating on the task at hand. She labours in silence for a while, her son now peacefully sleeping in the arms of what she might have called a monster. She finds irony in this, and is reminded of her son's father, a fiend in his own right.

"Your son….looks remarkably similar to the man with a fiery mane that 18 defeated earlier." His voice permeates the quiet atmosphere that has settled in the room.

"Yes, that is Vegeta. Vegeta is his father…" She sometimes still finds it strange to admit the parentage, as if it is wondrous news to herself. She is slightly disturbed with the new knowledge that he had been overpowered and wonders about his safety.

"He is a man who enjoys death and devastation." She lets out a soft hmm of acknowledgement, focused on reprograming the complicated motherboard presented before her. "He is a man who takes and gives nothing." He stares down at the child in his arms, tracing his fingers across the striking lavender eyebrows.

He shifts slightly, his gaze now over his shoulder, his cool grey eyes observing her form. "Is this child the result of his taking?" Her hands halt with their work, her breath caught in her throat, her heart beginning to race. She knows what he is asking.

"No." She puts the screwdriver down, the clang of hard metal hitting steel vibrating throughout the room. "No." She repeats. "It was mutual. It was consensual." She falls quiet, her arms shaking with indignation. He turns his attention back to the boy.

"A beautiful child this is. I find it difficult to understand how his being has been formed…"He looks back to her. "I find it difficult to understand that a kind woman such as yourself could reciprocally consent to a man like Vegeta." He grows quiet, rocking Trunks gently, his mind somewhere else.

She picks up her tools and continues her progress, biting her lip to keep her calm. She does not want to upset him. She reflects on his question, and begins to feel insecure. She ponders if the others view it this way, if they see her attachment to Vegeta as less than what she sees, what she understands. If they see her child as the result of something that is tainted with bloodlust, rape and power.

"He is different. He is not as he appears." He does not give her a readable form of recognition of her words, but she knows he is listening. As she tinkers away, she wonders whether the others will ever gain an insight into the man that she has come to know intimately. If they will ever catch a glimpse of the beauty that is the monster she is learning to love.


	5. Revelations

_**Author's Note**__: Miari Bulma is probably my favourite Bulma (though I love them all), and I always wondered what would be happening with her and Trunks after the Cell saga. A little drabble between Miari Bulma & Miari Trunks. Keep in mind that she never got to experience the Vegeta that main-Bulma gets. _

**Revelations**

She is unsure what to do now, how to function in the post-apocalyptic world. They have succeeded with their task, securing a peaceful future for the dimension that hosts her younger self. But now her single-minded determination has come to an end. She is left to be idle, lacking the energy to begin to rebuild, to overcome the devastation that scars the landscape of her home. She is exhausted, the will to keep surviving slowly seeping from her tired body.

She hears the soft footsteps of her son and shakes herself from her own thoughts, preparing herself to continue to be that strong mother that she needs to be. A warm smile graces her lips when he comes into view and she resists the urge to wrap her arms tightly around him and whisper promises of hope and love. She does not want to worry him.

"Dinner will be ready soon." He nods his head in acknowledgement.

"Can I help?" Always ready to lend a hand, her beautiful boy. She waves him away.

"No, I've got it covered." She enjoys the task; it gives her a sense of worth in her moment of uncertainty. He sits down at the table watching her intently for a time. She can feel his intense gaze on her, reminding her of his father.

"They seemed….happy. I think. Your other self." She keeps her concentration, nodding her head in acknowledgement while she stirs the noodles in the pot. "I wonder how I'll grow up, with Dad around, and not needing to worry so much about surviving to the next day." He muses, a sense of regret hidden within the deep tones of his voice. She remains silent.

"Mom…can I ask you something?" She turns her attention to him, there is a look of concern etched into his face, as though he is afraid that what he will ask will anger her, or worse, upset her.

"You can ask me anything Trunks." He stands, walking over to the counter that separates the main cooking area of the kitchen and where they eat, resting his hands on the beaten slap of marble that has long since lost its luminosity.

"How did you know that dad was the one?" She stops stirring, a frown appearing on her worn face.

"That's a difficult question to answer. I don't think your dad was the one anymore than I think he wasn't." He waits patiently while she attempts to collect her thoughts. She places the wooden spoon down on the counter, and turns her body completely to face him. "I learned a long time ago to stop believing in this fairy tale that there is 'the one.'"

"Then why did you-" She holds a hand up, stopping him mid-sentence.

"Just listen." He grows silent, waiting. She takes a deep breath. "When I was a teenager, I believed in these romantic stories. I thought that there was only one perfect person for me. And I thought that that person was Yamcha. He was my lone desert bandit, my hero at times. What we had, I thought it was everything…"

She reflects on her memories, how they seem so long ago. She feels a pain constrict deep within her chest, reminding her of everything she has lost. "We both thought that each other was the one, so we didn't work on our relationship. Relationships….they need effort. You can't just get by thinking that everything will work out because you are meant to be together. It doesn't operate like that….as much as we want it to."

"So you and dad then..." She takes a moment to think her answer through.

"I cannot tell you, what your dad and I were. We didn't get the time…we didn't get the chance to see where it would go beyond the miracle that was you…" She reaches over and grabs his hand. "I don't put my faith in something like Fate. We determine our own futures." He pulls his hand away, a pained expression shadowing his face.

"So me then…what am I? Just an unfortunate accident? You and dad weren't even in love?" She frowns, walking around the counter to grab his shoulders, the boiling pot now forgotten.

"Trunks, you listen to me. Yes, you were an accident, in that you were unplanned. But it was not unfortunate; I do not regret your existence." She grabs his face, forcing him to look at her. "I cannot tell you what your dad and I were. All I can tell you is that I developed a deep affection for him, and while I cannot be certain how he felt about me, I'd like to think he felt the same. If anything, Fate brought your dad and I together so we could have you, so you could save the world. But beyond that I cannot tell you. We didn't get that chance."

They stand still in silence for a moment, before he wraps his robust arms around her, almost crushing her with his embrace. She relishes the feeling, holding on to that sensation that reminds her of the one that she didn't get her opportunity with, the man that unexpectedly turned her world upside down when he arrived those decades ago. She tells herself that soul-mates are silly notions, but she cannot help the feeling of emptiness that has been there since the day he stop living, an eternal void of loneliness deep within the recess of her chest, brought on by the death of the man who managed to sink deep into the essence of her being.


	6. Sensations

**Author's Note:** _A thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews. I know I haven't got any one-shots with interactions that directly involve Vegeta yet, they will come. This is another Mirai Bulma & Trunks that came to me while writing the last chapter. I think scents are powerful tools for reclaiming forgotten memories and emotions._

**Sensations**

She is humming softly, a basket of laundry held against her stomach with her hands as she walks down the lone hallway that connects the utility rooms to the rest of the dilapidated Capsule Corp. Her beautiful son has left to scout for any remnants of the monsters that have destroyed her world, ensuring safety before they begin the next stage of rebuilding, of doing more than just surviving. She is filling the time, allowing the mundane tasks to keep her hands busy, letting her mind wander over the possibilities that their newfound future may hold.

She barely registers the light shining in from a room as she strolls past, the door cracked, tempting her to peek inside. But it catches the corner of her eye, beckoning to her. She is in front of her son's room, one that she has increasingly spent less time in over the past years as he has grown older. She avoided it when he was away, unable to bring herself to seek comfort its familiarity. But now it calls to her.

She nudges the door with her right hand, the left holding her basket in place against her body. It creaks slightly, and she is greeted with a space that is saturated with the cool tones of the morning light. It is somewhat tidy, though he has left clothes and other oddities strewn hastily across his bed and floor, as if he recently dumped them there to attend to later. Her eyes scan the room and rest on a pile of clothes that seem familiar, and yet she cannot place a time in which she had seen her son wearing them. She drops the basket she holds gently onto the ground, and steps into the room. Carefully, she walks over to the small pile spilling out from an old duffel bag, its once vivid colours now diluted, the Capsule Corp logo frayed along its edges. She grabs hold of a maroon shirt, running her hands across its soft material. She concentrates on the fabric and the shape. She realises that this shirt is from the past, that he must have obtained it during his time there. Her hands begin to shake as a wave of recognition washes over her, pulling at her, seducing her. She brings the shirt up to her face, rubbing the fabric against her cheek, breathing in its scent.

She is first struck by the powerful odour, a perfume long forgotten, and the memory of her mother, fresh daisies and home-baked bread floods her mind. Her chest constricts slightly, the sensation beginning to overwhelm her senses as she basks in the beauty this sweater holds. She can see her mother's bright face, she can hear her melodic voice in her ears. She closes her eyes to inhale the sweater again, and catches a whiff of tobacco and oil, the aroma of her father. She is reminded of the dark lab, the sounds of the machinery, the flashing lights, the soft wisps of smoke as he sucked on a cigarette, his words of encouragement and praise. She brings the shirt down and holds it arm's length. It is dangerous, what she is doing. She can feel the hard walls she has built to protect herself and her son beginning to disintegrate. She can feel her resolve starting to slip.

Her eyes rest on a black t-shirt, and she grabs it, letting the maroon sweater slip from her fingers onto the floor. She draws in the aroma. She can smell her son, but there is something else, the fragrance she used to wear when she was younger. It is there, hidden within the weaves of the fabric. It reminds her of Oolong and Roshi, the desert air and the lush green forests. She is brought back to the beach of the little Kame house, to the sweat filled air of the martial arts arenas. She is reminded of her epochs with her bandit, his young face appearing in her mind, the time he earned his scars, the times they fell apart.

She throws the shirt onto the ground. She shouldn't have come in his room. She can feel the tears brimming at the corner of her eyes, threatening to fall, her body preparing itself for despair. She turns her body back towards the door, trying to find the will to force herself to leave when she sees it. The unmistakable vivid blue spandex of Saiyian wear.

She kneels down onto the floor, picking up the strong fabric with trembling hands. When she brings it to her face to inhale its deep musk, she is overpowered by the memories that begin to drown her mind. He is there, his scent seeped into the fabric, powerful against that of her son. She can see him, his strong features. She can feel his penetrating gaze on her, the ghost of his imprints that his hands would leave in their lovemaking. As she clutches the fabric desperately, her resolve crumbles away. Her heart is racing, her chest restricted as the tears flow freely down her face. Her body is wracked with sobs as she buries her face, frantically trying to breathe more of him in. His voice now in her ear, a long forgotten husky and gravel tone that would send tremors down her spine.

The grief that she worked hard to suppress when they died has surfaced, wrapping its tight arms around her body, squeezing her into remission. It possesses her body, leaving her hunched over the fabric as the tears spill from her eyes. It tears her into pieces, knowing that this is the last time she will ever get the chance to take in the essence of him, of them.

* * *

He finds her in the dimming light of the evening, broken on the bedroom floor, her hands tightly clutching the spandex of the armor he wore while training in the Hyperbolic chamber. His hand stills on the doorknob, stuck in the motion of walking in casually, struck by the image of his mother as her quiet sobs fill the room.

He begins to comprehend the grievous error he has made in leaving his stuff scattered for her to find. He cannot bring himself to comfort her, having never seen her in such a state of despair. He feels guilty, not having considered the impact that his return would have on her, the knowledge that he has spent time with those she loved, those who have now all died, leaving them alone in their displaced world. His unwavering respect for her intensifies in this moment, realising that she has hidden her immense pain to be a good mother to him.

And so he watches in silence, his mother falling apart, the only time that he'll ever experience such rawness of her being. The only time he'll ever be witness to the fragility and vulnerability that Bulma Briefs has concealed deep within the confines of her self.


	7. Admissions

**Author's Note Edit: **I've updated this chapter slightly from the original, as I am in agreement that my portrayal of the relationship between Bulla and Vegeta seemed a bit on the harsh side, and is not as how I and others think it should be portrayed.

**Author's Note:** _Past few chapters have been a bit sad I think. This one is inspired by some Deviantart comics that feature BV. I've not been consistent with name spellings regarding the differences between the letter alphabet spellings of the Japanese names and their English equivalents…I hate the name Bra and prefer to use Bulla (even though technically, they are the same). I'm hoping Vegeta and Goku are not OOC, they can be a difficult characters to write I find. Hopefully you enjoy this one!_

**Admissions**

The sky is bright, dotted with frothy white clouds and a beaming sun. The trees sway gently in the slightest of cool breezes. The day is warm, filled with high pitched giggles of delight and shrieks of laughter. It is a beautiful, perfect day.

He hates it.

On days like these, friends of his partner congregate to Capsule Corp, basking in the lush greenery, partaking in the food and beverages she prepares. He finds the company unbearable, often hiding away in his gravity chamber to avoid the tediousness of social interaction. Sometimes, she pulls an ultimatum and he is forced to engage. Today is one of those days. So he finds himself sitting in the lawn chair, arms crossed tightly across his chest, his gaze focused on his adolescent son sparring with Goten. This will be the extent of his participation.

"Bulma-san got her way I see!" Kakarot has slipped into the chair beside him, his arms relaxed behind his, legs spread out across the lawn. A hmpf from Vegeta acknowledges his presence, his own eyes fixated on Trunk's movements. "He's getting quite skilled." Kakarot states, following Vegeta's line of vision.

"Training."

"Talk my ear off why don't ya?" A smile appears at the corner of Kakarot's mouth. He chooses to ignore the subtle jab at his rather lack of communication. A sense of peacefulness settles over the two rivals as they watch their sons for a time.

It is broken by the soft sobs of young Bulla, a doll clutched tightly in her hands, her bright red cheeks stained with fresh tears. "Bulla!" Kakarot calls to her, and she brings a tiny fist up to wipe away the tears from her left eye, sniffling as she wanders over to him. "Bulla, why are you crying?" She looks down at the ground, shuffling her feet in shame.

"Bulla, what is the matter?" Vegeta asks her, his voice quiet and soothing as he picks her up and places her in his lap. She is his little princess, and he hates to see her cry, though he is acutely aware of his behaviour in front of his once enemy.

"Bulla, tell Uncle Goku what is the matter. Has Trunks and Goten been mean to you again?" He calls to her, observing the two of them closely. She shakes her head, her small pudgy fingers pulling at the strands of hair from her doll.

"Did you have a fight with Pan?" Vegeta asks. She shakes her head again.

"It's daddy…." Her lip trembles and a laugh escapes from Kakarot.

"Yes, he is a bad man sometimes, isn't he? What did your daddy do?" Vegeta narrows his eyes, he cannot recall what he has done in the past few days to invoke such emotion from his daughter. She turns her attention to Kakarot.

"Uncle Goku…do….do Sayians eat people?" He is taken aback by her comment.

"Did Trunks and Goten say that to you?" Kakarot inquires.

"No…" She is fidgeting with her fingers now. When she looks up, her blue-saucer eyes are staring intently at her father. "I heard daddy say that he was going to eat mommy all up tonight and there wasn't a thing she could do about it!" She begins to wail softly again, the rest of her dialogue lost within the cries. The look of shock that has overcome Kakarot's features is quickly replaced by a sly grin. The real meaning behind her words has registered.

"No Bulla…Your daddy was just talking about your mother's…." He pauses for a moment, thinking. "Your mother's _pudding_….Right Vegeta-san?" A large smile is now plastered on Kakarot's features, eyeing up Vegeta with amusement.

Nothing could describe the vivid crimson that has overcome his features, his body shaking with indignation, horrified that Bulla had overhead and his rival is witness to the admission. He manages to grunt out a yes, desperately trying to retain his composure. Kakarot turns his attention back to Bulla.

"See Bulla? You know your mother makes excellent pudding, he was just saying that she needs to make enough to satisfy him…." He gives Vegeta another sly smirk. "You know your daddy has a big appetite." The double entendre is missed by his daughter, but Vegeta catches it immediately. His features grow darker as his growls to Kakarot in a warning tone.

Vegeta manages to pick his daughter up and place her on the ground, giving her a pat on the head and telling her to go off and play. She stands on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek and skips away, humming softly, her tears forgotten.

Kakarot leans back in the chair, hands behind his head again as he closes his eyes. "So Vegeta…what's your favourite flavour of pudding?" He asks nonchalantly. "I reckon you're one of those men who has a special liking for the taste of strawberry..." The innuendo rings clear. Vegeta unclenches his tight fists, not realising he had clenched them in the first place, taking note of the soft nail marks that have drawn blood. He stands immediately, hurling a small ki ball at Kakarot in retaliation. Without opening his eyes Kakarot deflects it, sending it spiralling into one of the patio umbrellas where Bulma is sitting, incinerating it. Kakarot stands up then, a look of embarrassment on his face as Bulma marches towards him, her eyes blazing with rage.

"What is going on here?! Can I not leave the two of you alone for five minutes before you destroy something?!" Vegeta smirks, ready to experience the verbal bashing that Kakarot had incited from Bulma. _Serves Kakarot right._

"Bulma-san! I was just asking him what his favourite flavour of pudding was!" A perplexed expression on her face softens the hard look in her eyes, she glances over to Vegeta for clarification. "He refuses to tell me…" Goku lets out a knowing chuckle, the significance of the conversation lost on Bulma.

"Is that what this is all about?" She asks Vegeta, but he looks away, ignoring her question.

"Bulma, does Vegeta prefer vanilla, chocolate or strawberry pudding?" The puzzled expression remains on her face.

"Vegeta likes to have a combination of all three actually…" The thunderous laughter of Kakarot rings through the air, his hands clutching his sides as he catches the attention of the others. She watches him, baffled as to why pudding flavour preferences would trigger such a reaction from Kakarot.

Vegeta takes that moment to fly off. He has reached his limits.


	8. Admiration

**Author's Note:** _Thank you all again for your lovely reviews. This a Miari Trunks & Vegeta. Short drabble. _

**Admiration**

The air is humid, thick as it envelops his body, suffocating him. The heat is almost unbearable as he slugs through the room, the gravity intense, pulling down on his body. The sweat pours down his face, dampening his lavender locks and pools at his feet. His muscles burn from exhaustion, his resolve to continue weakening.

They have spent seven months in the Hyperbolic Chamber, though he feels that it has been much longer. He is desperate for fresh air, for human contact other than the man that he is still struggling to call a father. Their conversations have been minimal, though there is a slight increase in familiarity as they train intensely. Trunks is coming to learn about the enigma of his father, a man who appears to give nothing away as they toil endlessly. He is beginning to understand the attraction that his mother had to Vegeta's perseverance and ambition, his strength and cunning. Only his mother could really appreciate the beauty, the finesse behind the way he fights. But now Trunks is starting to value the art that his father weaves in his ruthless determination.

"Sustenance." His father states, halting his progress. Trunks barely recognises the feeling of hunger as the fatigue overwhelms him, but he nods his head in agreement and follows his father. They sit in silence, and Trunks feels the urge to ask something tugging at him. He is unsure what answer he will receive, and is mindful of ruining their already strained and fragile relationship.

"What was Vegeta-sei like?" He asks. It is not the question that is burning at the back of his mind, but he knows he cannot jump right in. His father stops for a moment.

"Red. The sky was red. And the ground was rough, dry." He doesn't give him more and returns to his task at hand. Trunks decides to try his luck with waited breathe.

"Why do you bother?" Vegeta ignores him, continuing to eat his food. A moment passes before he raises his head.

"To be the best." He replies simply, turning his attention back to his meal.

"No…I mean with her. Them. Why did you bother with them?" The scraping of the fork against the plate halts, an ominous silence filling the room. When he finally looks up, his eyes are narrowed. Trunks can read the warning that is set in his glare, but he chooses to push forward. "Why didn't you save her?" Vegeta remains silent. Trunks begins to feel uncomfortable beneath the gaze of his father, but his anger is resurfacing over what had happened. He knows deep down that his mother should not have been there, but he is protective of her, furious at the lack of care the man sitting before him has demonstrated.

But Vegeta just looks at him, one eyebrow raised. "Your mother can take care of herself. You are a fool to think otherwise." There is a hint of admiration and resentment in his tone of voice. Something that Trunks finds confronting. Vegeta turns his attention once more to his meal, the deafening silence now settling in the room.

They do not speak after that. But Trunks has come to a realisation about the mystery of his father, his words the briefest of intimate confessions that Trunks knows he will not experience again. That perhaps it was his father who needed his mother much more than she who needed him.


	9. Bereavement

******Author's Note EDIT: **_While I respect constructive criticism and commentary as it is the best way to improve one's writing, I have noticed that some individuals who remain anonymous have been posting nasty reviews regarding my intelligence, not just on this particular fic but on others as well. It seems that there are trolls in the midst of the fanfiction world who feel the need to make others feel bad. It is cowardly to leave an anonymous review of such offensive proportions. I feel for those who are new writers who have received your treatment. In light of this, all reviews will now be moderated and abuse will be be reported. This is a shame, as I prefer to not moderate reviews. I am more than happy to receive critiques in the form of constructive feedback, but abuse will not be tolerated. All nasty reviews are deleted. I want to again thank all of you who have left positive reviews and reviews that help me learn from my errors. Your words are appreciated. I am currently redrafting chapter 8 (Goku x Vegeta) as some of you have suggested regarding the relationship with Bulla and Vegeta, as I feel you make some valid points. _

**Author's Note Original: **_Another future Trunks & Vegeta one..._

**Bereavement**

The shadows of the large building conceal his presence as he spies on her. He watches her, her back to him, her focus on something that he cannot see. The green dress she wears hugs her frame, and he takes note of her cropped hair. The afternoon sun is setting, and she is beautiful in its amber glow.

He has come to see her one last time. He knows he should not be here, that his presence will disrupt the future that this dimension holds. He promised himself he would not do this, but he is here, watching a young version of his mother, taking everything in. His chest aches as he continues to observe her. He is much older now, a man in his late fifties, his once lavender locks now slowly turning grey. He has managed to maintain his strong body, but the wrinkles are there. He is no longer the spirited youth he once was.

She turns her body, her profile in view and he is astounded to see the unmistakable bump of a pregnancy. Has he come too far in the past? Has he chosen the wrong dimension? She looks older than the young mother he met during the androids terror. He was always unsure about the specific parameters of time travel, and now wonders if he's made a serious error.

A young, adolescent version of himself comes running into view, and Trunks realises that his mother is pregnant with a second child, a sibling. He watches the adolescent place his hand on his mother's stomach, a delighted expression on his face as she smiles warmly at him. A real family. She turns her attention towards him and he hides himself away quickly. He cannot risk her seeing him again. He waits a moment and turns back to watch her, she is now walking away to enter the compound, his young self in tow. He fights back the urge to follow her, to wrap her up in his arms and tell her again and again how much he loves her, how much he misses her. It is all he can do to not bury his face in her hair like he used to do as a child, taking in the scent of her, of their life together. He is caught up in the memory that he does not detect the presence of his father who has materialised behind him.

"Trunks." He jumps and turns, his father now in view. He is speechless, unable to process what to say as his father stares at him. "You look old." His father states. Trunks nods his head in acknowledgement.

"I am fifty-five…" Vegeta raises an eyebrow. Another time, he would have found it amusing that he is conversing with his father who is currently much younger than him. But now it is just a reminder of the significant loss in his life.

"What are you doing here. Is there trouble?" Straight to the point. Trunks shakes his head and looks back towards the compound. Vegeta follows his gaze. "I'm sure your mother would like to see you again." An invitation or the best that he'll get from his father. He shakes his head again.

"No, I can't." As much as he wants to, he knows he would not be able to look her in the eyes and lie to her. She will see the pain, and he does not want to bring that upon her. She is happy, he can see that.

"She is pregnant. You're having another child?" He asks his father instead. A hint of a smile graces Vegeta's mouth.

"Yes, it will be a boy. With black hair and eyes like a Saiyian should have." He is proud and Trunks feels a small tug of happiness at the indirect insult. A sense of humour, his father has, as dark as it is. "Trunks, why are you here?" Vegeta repeats his earlier question, the serious tone not missed.

"She died." He looks back at the house again, hoping to glimpse her once more. He knows that he is showing weakness to his father, but he does not care. He is much older now, no longer requiring the approval of a man he does not really know. Vegeta maintains his stoic composure. If the revelation has affected him, he does not let it show.

She comes back outside, looking for something. The sun has set, turning the grounds darker. He can just make out the silhouette of her body in the fading light. She is ethereal.

"Do not tell her I was here." He says as he prepares to depart, turning his body away from the compound, the vision of her imprinted in his mind. He turns back towards his father. "She looks really happy. Whatever has happened since I was last here…You all look content." He gives his father a nod and flies off, his form disappearing in the dark horizon.

* * *

She is in bed, a pillow resting on her growing stomach as she reads. The light is dim and the room is cool, a soft breeze blowing through the open balcony doors. She feels his presence before she sees him, knowing that he is in the closet, undressing for bed.

"I thought I saw an older version of Trunks earlier…" She says. "But it was dark; I think my mind was playing tricks on me again." He acknowledges her statement with a soft grunt as he slips in beside her.

He then wraps his arms around her, holding her soft form tight against his naked body, his face buried within the crook of her neck and shoulder. One hand placed protectively over her stomach. This sign of affection is rare for him; she can feel a sense of desperation as he holds on to her. She does not ask him what is wrong, though she knows something is up. Instead she places her book down and wraps her arms around him, breathing in the moment that he is giving her. Trying to soothe the unknown demon that is haunting him on this night.


	10. Hatred

**Author's Note: **_This is an interpretation on how Yamcha might be understanding the situation regarding B/V, early androids. A number of fanfic writers seem to characterise Yamcha as quite idiotic I'm going to portray him in a different light. __Short drabble. Based on a fanart I saw the other day. I'm in the process of creating a second one from Vegeta's POV. __Again, thank you to all of you who follow, who review, who give me words of encouragement and well-meaning constructive feedback._

**Hatred**

He hates the way the monster looks at her. The way his onyx eyes survey her each time they pass in the sterile Capsule Corp hallways. The hint of a glance out of the corner of his eye during the briefest of encounters. The depth of his smouldering gaze as it locks onto hers.

He hates the way the Saiyan's hands stained with death and bloodshed almost reach out to hers when he walks past. The simplest of movements, the flex of a finger. An effort so ephemeral that it took him ages to first notice it, and then later to realise its meaning, its purpose. The scarred bandit knows that every movement of this man is calculated, precise, and strategic. Nothing is wasted. He is aware of the complete control that this predator has over his body. He knows that these almost touches are not accidental, but consequential.

He hates the way the Saiyan's body softens in that instance when they stride by each other, the way his chest raises slightly as he breathes her in, the way his pace slows ever so slightly to prolong the moment.

He hates the way his cerulean beauty gazes at the man. As though he is a mystery waiting to be unpacked by her. As though he is the essence of something that is missing in her life. He hates the way her features take on the faintest hue of crimson when their bodies almost touch, the way he knows that she has noticed the predacious mien of the hunter. He hates the way he cannot seem to hold her attention, her mind often wandering with their conversations, her focus permanently fixated somewhere else, on someone else.

He hates the way she has begun to take more control over her own body, the manner in which her physical expressions have become more exact when she is around the warrior. The often clumsy antics have disappeared from her repertoire, as though she is both longing to and afraid of touching him. He hates the way she is growing to anticipate the moments that the slaughterer gives her, how she frequently glances in the directions in which he may appear.

He hates the way the alien and his beloved do not converse, the silence between them saying more than the words that rush from their mouths. A language of the most subtle body movements and fleeting glances that only they seem to understand. He hates the tension that he can feel when they are in a room together, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around them and pushing them closer. He hates the way they are drawn towards each other and the building, frustrating realisation that there is an undeniable force between the two, a link that is growing stronger as the days wear on.

He hates how he has noticed these things while they remain in denial, how he is becoming the third wheel within a story that is no longer his own.

But most of all, he is fearful.

Fearful of losing her. Fearful of the recognition that something is different now. Fearful of this stranger who is seemingly beginning to have a significant role within her life. Fearful of the presence of this one man he believes will threaten the carefully crafted narrative he has written out for them.

Fearful that his chapter with her is ending. That her tale is changing, and that he has been left behind.


	11. Dislike

**Author's Note:** _So I actually have two different Vegeta's POV on the same theme. When I spoke about the parallel, I was referring to one that would occur much later, after the birth of their first child, or even possible after the birth of their second. However, reading through your lovely reviews made me realise that some of you might have expected a complete parallel of the same timeframe, and thus the inspiration for two different but similar ones has been born. This one is that same timeframe of pre B/V & Androids, and so has that classic Vegeta mentality, this was actually quite difficult to write, as I have tried to balance between classic Vegeta and a Vegeta that is beginning to take interest in Bulma….Drabble, rated M for some very graphic descriptions of violence. _

**Dislike**

He has an immense dislike for the bandit. Hatred is too strong a word, reserved for those who have had significant impact on his life. Vegeta does not hate the man; he is not a worthy object of his odium. But there is a significant dislike for the outlaw that outweighs the distaste of some of the other companions that congregate around the cerulean woman. A dislike that often results in the satisfyingly violent fantasies, although he is hindered from being able to completely fulfill them.

He dislikes the man's appearance, the short, bowl cut hair and strange-shaped scars on his face irritate him just so. He wants to grab his mane and shove his skull into solid walls, watch it crack and bleed profusely. He wants to dig his gloved fingers into those scars and rip them apart, the thick red liquid gushing over his hands.

He dislikes the carefree attitude, the manner in which the bandit strides around the Capsule Corp grounds, the hint of a smirk gracing his lips. Emanating an air of arrogance that thinly veils the insecurity and lack of spine that this man possesses. He wants to slice the man's back open and yank out his actual spine, crushing it between his fingers and watch him collapse into a heap of gore and blood on the ground, laughing as he does so.

He is coming to dislike the relationship that exists between the brigand and the woman, warranting the cretin's presence as valid within the compound since his return from the afterlife. The manner in which he drapes his arm over her shoulder, the way he clumsily gropes her body. He is repulsed by the man's lack of control over his own body, maladroit in its movements. The ill-performed kisses and less than impressible feats of their overheard lovemaking.

He does, however, enjoy the way the man efforts to assert himself through pathetic displays of jealousy and dominance. He delights in the man's inability to compete in a verbal spar, often rendered emasculated by both him and the woman alike.

He is relishes the manner in which the man scrutinises him, surveying his every movement with a seething hatred that grows each day. Just a low burning ember that Vegeta enjoys feeding, allowing it to simmer. It is a delightful game he plays, the feigned interest in the woman, just to infuriate the man who has laid claim.

But he is increasingly becoming mindful in the manner in which he engages with this amusement when the bandit is not around, when it is just him and the cerulean woman. He is increasingly becoming aware of how is he is now purposely seeking her out, the way his body is responding when they are within close proximity. He is increasingly becoming conscious of the aroma of her perfume and the hue of her eyes. The voluptuous curves of her form and the fullness of her lips. He is starting to wonder what the texture of her skin feels like. He is starting to imagine the suppleness of her body beneath him, the sound of her gasps and the raking of her nails down his back.

He does not hate this man, but he is starting to loath the way the bandit does not appreciate the extent of her genius and the rarity of her beauty. The manner in which he tunes out from her conversations, the lack of interest he has in her projects. The sloppy caresses of a frame that requires the expertise and mastery of touch. He is starting to detest the way that the outlaw cannot perceive the loneliness that she tries to conceal, that he cannot see past the façade she creates.

He is starting to loath himself for taking such notice of these things, the way he has begun to feel a twinge of resentment towards the man and the manner in which the woman is beginning to occupy his mind. The knowledge that what is occurring may no longer be considered just a game, the self-awareness of the way she is beginning to seep into the pores of his being.

He is starting to begrudge himself for realising that he is beginning to hate this man, a lamentable opponent who each day proves his worth through his companionship with her.


	12. Hatred II

**Author's Note:** _So this is the original parallel that I had in mind regarding Vegeta's POV. After Majin Buu, probably early GT as there is a young Bulla. I think the way he would regard Yamcha would differ after Majin Buu, and this is just an interpretation of that perspective. I think Majin Buu and the birth of Bulla really solidified the BV relationship, but has also made it that much more fragile if it were to be broken….Enjoy. Thank you for your reviews and feedback. _

**Hatred II**

He hates the way the scar-faced bandit still looks at her. The way his eyes linger on her form with unrequited longing when she walks by, the way his hands clench at his sides to prevent them from reaching out.

He hates the close proximity they maintain when they stand together, one that speaks of a long-time companionship. He hates the familiarity the man has with her, the quiet laughs and gleeful banter as they reminisce on days long past.

He hates the way she still smiles at him, filled with warmth and love. He knows she smiles at all of her friends this way, but he is tormented by this when it is bestowed on the outlaw. He is adverse to the way she speaks kindly to him and gently touches his arm.

He hates the way they touch, innocent and significant, platonic on her end, and hopeful on his. He loathes the way the man closes his eyes and stops breathing in the moment she wraps her arms around him. The way he is desperate to maintain contact, and his quick detachment from her, the slightest of trembles in his hands and the exhale of the held breath when she turns away. He hates the way the bandit tries too hard to conceal his feelings when it comes to her, the way he tries to distance himself to prevent the wrath from her lover.

He hates the way they have history, something deep and long that he cannot understand, something he cannot be a part of. He hates the way the man is involved with her youth, partially responsible for the shaping of who she is today.

He hates how the bandit watches his son, the smallest glimpse of resentment that flashes in his eyes. He hates how he pushes that bitterness aside to interact with him warmly, encouraging and promising. He hates the way the man dotes on his young daughter, the sadness clearly discernible in the way he speaks with her and the manner in which he strokes her soft hair. As though he wishes that she was his, as though she is the constant reminder of everything he lost.

He hates the way the presence of this man makes him feel, the smallest voice of insecurity whispering in his ear. Telling him that the one good thing in his life will not last, will be snatched away, just like everything else he's ever valued. That there is someone waiting for him to fail, ready to pick up the pieces and put them back together in a way that he could never achieve.

He is fearful, and he hates the manner in which this fear will sneak in, intoxicating his veins and driving her away, them away. He is not a man who often feels terror, but on his darkest days, he is fearful that she will run back to the man who stole her heart the first time. The man who keeps the smallest piece in hopes that she will return. The sliver that he cannot get his hands on, the one she keeps locked away in her memories of a time before them. The era that she sometimes drifts off to replay in her mind, made up of people and events that he cannot relate to.

He is fearful of the moment that he believes she will inevitably stop loving the monster that is him. That she will no longer want to be caressed by bloodstained hands, no longer want to be touched by a bringer of death. He is fearful of the manner in which she has become a part of the essence of his being. And while he knows that he can live without her, he is fearful of the increasing realisation that he may not want to.


	13. Fairy Tales

**Author's Note: **_So sorry for the delays, I have been swamped with marking exams and AGM stuff for my volunteer work. So much writing and marking it sucked the creativity right outta me. This little piece has been on my mind for a while, it's not exactly BV but has elements and so I am including it within this collection. I used to not be a fan of Chichi when I was younger and watched the series, but now that I'm older, I feel like I have a better understanding, or can give a different interpretation from the often 'harpy' characterisations we see in FanFiction. I hope this does not come out as Goku bashing because that is not my intention. This was in part inspired by another fanfic work for Adventure time that I'm doing. I hope to get more updates over the holidays, but I am heading overseas for 5 weeks to visit home, so we shall see. The change of scenery may actually help the creative process. _

_Reviews and constructive feedback welcome, flames not. I write to get it out of my system, I hope you enjoy __ Thank you again for all of your support. _

**Fairy Tales**

"My husband is a hero." Bulma turns her attention towards the woman, her face softening as she takes in the sight of her. Normally she boasts of her relationship, the title of hero rendering her a place of virtuous existence that Bulma cannot match. A status earned through the selflessness of Chichi's being and her determination of raising his children, of being the epitome of femininity.

Usually, Bulma would waive away the proclamation with a light-hearted retort that would spur a delightful match of competition between the two women over their husbands and sons. But today, the words are caught in her throat when her gaze rests on the fragile, psychologically beaten form that sits hunched over at the table. The woman's tone is filled with sorrowful revelation as she stares down into trembling pool of russet water that stains the porcelain cup. Bulma quietly takes a seat beside her, softly placing her own tea cup on the saucer, wrapping her hands around for its warmth. Today it is a day for listening.

"My husband is a hero." Chichi repeats, staring off into the distance. "And my life, it was a fairy-tale, for a while…" A sad smile graces her lips. "But you never find out what happens in the ever after…" She states.

"No, we're expected to believe that it maintains itself." Bulma responds, having an intimate love-hate relationship with the tales themselves.

"I did everything perfectly. When I think back, I was in a fairy-tale, a love story…" Bulma reflects on her friend's admission, playing out the narrative of their intertwined lives in her head. A young sprightful Chi-Chi sparring with Goku, them as teenagers in the martial arts tournament, meeting their first son. She comes to realise that her own part was not of the princess, as much as she wanted it to be. She was the godmother, the companion, but never the lover, the heroine. Not in this particular story.

"I fit the part. I was the quintessential example of femininity when I married Goku. Soft, subservient, doting…I took care of the house and the children. I fulfilled my expected role." There is frustration laced within her words. But she is correct. She is the picture of perfection that Bulma could not obtain. Domesticity, femininity, softness and vulnerability. Bulma knows that some of this is crafted, that Chichi is strong, a warrior, a tigeress. But she has managed to mould herself into this ideal of perfection to suit the narrative she finds herself in. Something Bulma could not achieve.

"I love my children, my family….Goku has given me two wonderful sons…" She looks down into her cup again, squeezing it tightly, her hands beginning to tremble. There is something she wants to say, but is afraid. Bulma reaches over and places her hand over Chichi's, taking it away from the cup and interlocking her fingers with hers. She takes note of the soft skin over the top and the rough, calloused palm and finger pads. How very like Chichi, she muses. The picture of femininity, the true nature hidden.

"Chichi, you do not need to defend your love for your family. I know you do." Chichi nods her head.

"No one tells you what it really means to be the wife of a hero….Goku is a wonderful man. But loving a hero, a true hero….it doesn't keep your bed warm at night…" Silence permeates the room. A single tear rolls down Chichi's cheek and she lets out her held breath.

"All my life I did everything I could to maintain this perfect fairy-tale. But…it's left me empty in one place that can never be filled. I have a home, and a family, and friends…but I do not have a husband. Not really…I do not have a lover, a companion. I have a ghost, a status…but nothing more." Bulma squeezes her hand gently, reassuring her. She knows there is nothing she can say to soothe what Chichi is feeling. This is a revelation that cannot be healed. "No one tells you what to do, how to breathe again when your hero leaves you. They expect you to treat him as they do, as a symbol, an icon….They forget that he is a person…that I'm a person…" She trails off, staring out the large window to watch her youngest son spar with Trunks, her oldest son coaching them.

"I do not want that for my children. I do not want Gohan to be a hero. Not in the way that his father was. I want him to experience love to its fullest…" The focus on study and scholarship begins to make more sense to Bulma now, the manner in which Chichi did not want her son to train, her own determination to separate her son from that world.

"I envy you Bulma. Not for your wealth, although it is lovely. Not for your beauty, though you are beautiful. I envy you for your determination to maintain who you are and not fall into the trap of the fairy-tale romance. I envy the life you have because you refused to mould yourself into something you are not….Your life is not a fairy tale. But some would argue that it could be…" She grows silent, watching the boys train, her eyes distant and her mind somewhere else.

Bulma takes that moment to reflect on the words that Chichi has given her, observing their sons spar. For the longest time, she had wanted the fairy tale that Chichi had. The courtship, the marriage, the children. And while she has those things now, she knows that they were completed in unconventional and what many would argue as problematic ways.

But she is beginning to realise how they were done on her terms, and not someone else's. She is starting to feel more grateful for the strange arrangement she finds herself in with her son and her husband, and the manner in which she did not follow the traditional narratives she often craved as a youth.

She turns her attention away from the window and catches his intense onyx stare on her, half-hidden in the hall shadows outside the kitchen. She is unsure as to whether he has overheard the whole conversation, though she knows that Chichi has not detected his presence. Their gazes lock and she smiles softly at him, one filled of gratitude for his presence, even it is often minute and distracted. He nods his head slightly in acknowledgement and walks off.


	14. Normalcy

**Author's Note: **_This particular piece is based on the manga, where Vegeta comes to live with Bulma and does not leave for a period of time (to return later to meet Goku and Future Trunks) like he does in the anime. This is set before the announcement of the incoming androids. I have moved everything over to **syropae (.wordpress)**__** .com** __but all fanfics will continue to be uploaded and updated on fanfiction (.net) . The website above is meant to function as a space for discussion and critical reviews, uploading of fanart and status updates on fanfics (the last especially important as I often will have long spells between updating)._

**Normalcy**

They sit in the kitchen, listening to the rain beat against the glass. Shadows dance in the evening light, twirling across the walls and reaching down into the floors. She is unfocused, her mind wandering, replaying the odd encounters that have begun to define the ordinary narrative that is her life. The everyday occurrences that make up the lives of others now strange and unfamiliar activities within the confines of her routine.

She glimpses at her lover, his scarred face half hidden in the darkness that has slowly seeped into the space. She wonders if he feels as lost as she does now that their lives have returned to something that others can only dream of. The mundane tasks of daily life frustrating her, making her feel as though there is something more than the simplistic pleasures of labour and domesticity. Her own story has been anything but normal, and her inability to adhere to the particular social script is both exasperating and liberating.

"It is strange to be back." His voice breaks the solitude, his eyes on the world outside the glass. She turns her attention towards him.

"What was it like?" He glances at her, an odd look deep within the dark hues of his eyes.

"Painful. It was painful. And then it was nothing." She nods her head, never having experienced death. It has changed him, them. She wonders if they can still be the same, their lives now each marked differently, the circumstances of their separation more than just a distance. Silence follows settling in the room with only the soft pelts of rain and the ticking of the clock providing a soundtrack.

The stillness that has come to represent their relationship is disturbed by the presence of a third man, his demeanour overwhelming, his aura sparking; hissing in the shadows and bringing to reality the extraordinary circumstances her life sometimes take. He strides into the kitchen, paying no heed to herself and her lover, ravaging the fridge to find something to satiate his never-ending hunger. But she can feel the heat radiate off of his body, the remnants of electricity that is weaved into the core of his existence.

"I cannot believe you let him live here." The resentment is laced within his words; she can sense his seething hatred vibrate from his body. He does not try to disguise his loathing, nor dampen the volume of his tone. He intends on her houseguest to hear him.

"He needed a place to stay." She observes her houseguest closely, water dripping down from his frame and pooling onto the floor, a towel thrown across his bare shoulder. If he can hear them, he is choosing not to respond. Her words do not sooth her lover, his eyes narrowed on the slashes that mar the Saiyan's back.

"What if he hurts you and your family?" She reaches over and grips his hand, entwining her fingers with his.

"He is not a danger to us." He is unconvinced, and turns his attention back towards the rain, the droplets sliding down the transparent walls. He does not understand why she has extended her generosity to this man, and she cannot fault him for it, the circumstances of his death sanctioned by the one who currently resides within the sanctuary of her home.

She glances back into the kitchen, and the monster is there, his obsidian stare burning right through her. She cannot read his expression, but she is drawn to him, and their gazes lock for a moment, sheets of slate piercing the blue gems.

"I wonder when Goku will return." His voice is far away as she continues to observe the man in her kitchen, the vigour of his presence occupying her periphery. He is death and bloodlust, fear and ambiguity. She finds it exhilarating, the uncertainty he brings to her life. "Then maybe things might return to normal." The significance of his statement weighs heavily on her mind. Her bandit is banking on the arrival of their hero to set things right, to bring them back to a time before their lives were tainted with destruction and chaos. She has not determined how this is different from their early adventures, how this particular man has changed everything.

He grips her hand tighter, and for a moment she is pleased with the act of possession. She turns her attention away to give her lover a look of gratitude and content, but she is startled to find his hard eyes focused past her, fixated on the dark man that invades her space. She follows his gaze, and there in the eyes of the monster is a challenge, the slight smirk etched into his face. Her love clenches her hand firmly, and she begins to realise that perhaps it is not the result of his death at the hands of this man that infuriates him so, but the threat of his presence on her notions of normalcy, the manner in which his everyday existence has become an integral thread that is the fabric of her life.


End file.
